


A Simple Mistake

by luxurypurses, Myrida



Series: The Wonderful, Kinky and Romantic Love Story of Elim Garak and Ekor Laset [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Caning, Confinement, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Forgiveness, Forgiveness is a complicated thing on Cardassia, Garak is a sub and we all know it, Guilt, Loving power exchange, M/M, Paddling, Safety, Sexual Tension, Submissive Garak, Things happen with a leather strap, Use of a Cane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxurypurses/pseuds/luxurypurses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrida/pseuds/Myrida
Summary: Elim makes a mistake while working in Ops. When he arrives at home, he makes another one, one that leaves Ekor with the task of putting things back in order.Set before Premiere Night, during the time Elim and Ekor lived on DS9, although (probably) after Withdrawals.





	A Simple Mistake

A Simple Mistake

Elim has spent a long day in Ops. A long day and most of the preceding night, in fact, and he is exhausted. His mind wanders as it often does to Ekor, and he wonders where all of his mental discipline has gone; it is devoted to his bondmate now, perhaps, instead of to his work. His safety is no longer his own responsibility, and that is a fact that is intended to relax him.

It relaxes him _too_ _much_. A moment too late, he realizes the communique he has sent on to Cardassia is not encoded to his usual standard. He tries to remedy it with another communique, one to distract whoever finds the first, but he knows and accepts it is too late, and any good intelligence agent would dismiss the puzzle in the second for the ease of accessing the first.

It could cost lives to Cardassians or to Federation allies, and Garak is not sure which would pain him more, which would benefit him more.

Without a word to anyone, he waits until he is dismissed for the day and then rushes to his cabin. The slip is no one’s responsibility but his own.

He can hear Ekor inside, playing soft music from the guest bedroom off to one side of the main living area. Elim wonders if he is meant to report this mistake to his bonded. He decides he does not want to - he does not want to be bothered by anyone - and so he goes into the bathroom and locks himself inside. People are going to die, families are going to be separated, and it is all because he could not focus on his menial work.

He gradually becomes aware that the music has stopped, and he must lean in to the door to hear Ekor’s footsteps on the other side.

“I’m not going to talk about it to you now,” Elim says defiantly.

He sets the timer function on the bathroom door lock and then backs away from it, facing the small room he has confined himself in. If others are going to suffer, surely he should too…?

No, that isn’t wise. He has learned lessons like this before. Instead he sits down in front of the control panel and plays with its settings, encoding functions and working as quickly as he can. Of course his accuracy is perfect now, he thinks in disdain, when nothing depends on it.

Nothing but Ekor.

Ekor, who is standing outside their shared bathroom, an irritated frown deepening between his eye ridges, crinkling his chufa. Elim has never denied him outright before.

“Yes, you are,” he says, firmly enough to be heard on the other side of the bulkhead. “And you’re going to address me properly, Elim’ik.”

Nothing.

Now, Ekor is certain that something is amiss. When Elim left for Ops that morning, he was smiling and humming to himself, kissing his fingers from his kneeling position before walking out of their quarters, the doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.

“Elim, open the door.”

Ekor expects to be obeyed, and although his voice carries the expectation well, the bathroom door does not open, and there is no answer from inside. Swallowing his irritation, Ekor adds, softly (dangerously softly): “Do not make me repeat myself, _pet_.”

When there is still no answer from inside, Ekor truly begins to worry. He tries the door, but is forced to acknowledge that Elim has locked him out.

“Don’t even try. It won’t open for you,” Elim’s voice comes through the bulkhead.

There are so many different things wrong with this, Ekor thinks, but his worry is still outweighing his irritation – although he knows he will have to do something about Elim’s attitude; as soon as possible, in fact.

“Elim, this is absolutely unacceptable behaviour,” he states flatly. “You will open the door, and then you will speak to me and tell me what has happened.”

“No.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Ekor’s eyes widened in shocked surprise. This has never happened before, not like this. When Elim had objections he would always, _always_ find a way to voice them respectfully.

“I said, no I won’t ope—”

“I do _not_ need to hear it twice, Elim,” he snaps. “You’re on very thin ice as it is.”

There is a pause, during which nobody speaks. Ekor is leaning against the bulkhead, irritation growing into a simmering anger with every second of defiant silence from within. Still, there is no answer.

“The door will come open eventually,” he says at length, “and that is a promise.”

He will not allow Elim to lock himself in— _oh_. Ekor almost groans as he realises something really significant must have gone awry, for Elim to choose their smallest, most cramped room and lock himself inside it. Still, he cannot accept this kind of behaviour from Elim. “You can make this even harder on yourself,” he says calmly, “or you can tell me what happened.”

There is another minute’s silence. Then, softly: “fine…”

“I arrived a few minutes late this morning, Sir. I thought it was fair for the captain to glare at me as I went to my station. I assured him I would make up the time, would not break at all…”

Elim sits on the floor, his back against the cabinets. The room feels like it is closing in around him, and he must take several shallow, panting breaths before he is able to steady himself again. He grits his eyes shut, listening to the constant tick of the timer. He does wish Ekor was inside to calm him, but he does not feel deserving of it yet, and is fully aware he was the one to shut the door.

“Julian agreed to let me work the full shift without stopping, although I daresay he was not happy about it. I did the full ten hours, Sir, with only water. I began to regret it partway through,” Elim rambles, his voice shaky, “Captain Sisko brought to my attention a Cardassian colony just on the outside of our border… he wanted me to contact them to ask for… assistance. He wanted _me_ to ask _them_ for help, for the warning code issued prior to Dominion attack, something to add to our arsenal… he had the _gall_ …”

Elim gasped for breath, and hoped he was not worrying Ekor too terribly.

“I wouldn’t do it. I was not about to… distract them from defending themselves, in a critical moment of vulnerability. What kind of help could I demand from them? I have a safe home to come back to, I have a loving companion and friends and… I couldn’t do it. I refused.”

Elim’s breaths continue racking his body. He puts his head in his hand and groans.

“I refused. I was humiliated in front of the rest of the crew for standing my ground and choosing _our_ people over theirs. And in the end, Sir? Sisko contacted the colony leader himself, and I am led to believe all of them perished, anyway. What could I have done?” Elim demands, gasping.

He knows better than to lie to his Master, but today he is so overwhelmed… he does not realize what he has done until the words are all out of his mouth, and he hears Ekor leaning heavily against the door from the other side.

“I wish I could… let you in, Sir,” Elim admits. “I am overreacting, I know… and I wish you were here to calm me. The timer will elapse in…” he glances to the side, “fifteen minutes.”

He isn’t going to open the door, Ekor realises at that last comment. It’s not that he can’t, but he _won’t_.

“If you wanted to, you could override the timer, Elim’ik.” The use of his title hasn’t escaped Ekor, even through the blatant act of defiance, so he softens his answer a little by calling Elim by his name-title in turn. “The fact is, you don’t want to.”

They both know this is the truth.

And it still isn’t acceptable behaviour. It would be irritating if they were in a relationship of equals. It is far more than just _irritating_ with Elim being Ekor’s property. Elim is his, with everything that he has, everything that he is, and to Ekor, this is… shocking, like being slapped across the face. Ekor thought Elim was better trained than this, but he is learning that he is in error. And it _hurts_.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Ekor says finally, evenly, and with deliberate ambiguity. He knows he could press him to open the door, but at this point, it won’t do much but inspire more defiance, more disrespect, and Ekor selfishly wants to spare himself the humiliation.

“I will be back in about… fifteen minutes. The door will be open by the time I return.”

He does not wait for a reply.

Elim waits until he has heard the entrance to their cabin open, then shut again; Ekor has gone. When Elim is alone, he breaks into a single, deep sob.

He knows he should not have lied. He _knows_ Ekor will figure it out - it was transparent, sentimental dribble. The lives lost were at his own hand; he was not forced.

So, he slumps against the cabinets and stares at the door timer, watching it click down toward zero. There was such finality in Ekor’s words - that it would be _open_ when he returned - that he decided against restarting the timer. The door slid open and he shifted his staring into the newly-exposed distance, taking in the homey details of their cabin, feeling dreadful.

He is not afraid of Ekor punishing him, no… he knows he deserves that. What he _is_ afraid of is enjoying it, and of being forgiven.

In his past indiscretions, Elim has been corrected and then gently reassured. He does not want that now. And then, he feels he should not be given the responsibility to decide. He should go back to silence and reflection, he thinks, and he should let Ekor be as harsh and relentless as he can manage.

No, he shouldn’t _decide_ . He shouldn’t _want._ His decisions today resulted in deaths. He should _not_ decide anymore.

Is it too late to be passive? He wonders. When Ekor comes home, should he lay himself out and ask to be corrected? Should he apologize and answer Ekor’s questions?

He does not decide on this yet, either. He will wait to see how Ekor responds. Maybe he will still get out of this with sympathy, with gentle correction and—

 _No_ , he thinks, gripping his own wrist punishingly.

Meanwhile, Ekor takes the quickest route through the station and directly to Ops. There are security personnel who give him suspicious looks that border on hostility, but Ekor will not be deterred, returning their stares in kind. The officers do not seem to be under direct orders to prevent civilians from entering. Even if they are Cardassians.

And so, Ekor storms into the command center of the station with accusations of negligence and misconduct on his lips.

“Why did you not listen to him?” he snarls at Captain Sisko, once he has spotted the man at a console, together with Commander Dax and Major Kira. “You should have left them alone, but you didn’t… and now they’re all _dead_. Because you valued their lives less than you did a simple, stupid warning code that will be worthless in 26 hours anyway!”

Ekor doesn’t register the expressions on their faces at first; he does, however, register the security detail wedging themselves between him and the Captain, shoving him back and restraining him. Ekor struggles against their grip, but they’re well-trained, and he is… a musician.

Ekor pauses his effort to shake off their hands, and after a while, Sisko gives them a nod. They let go and step back.

But Sisko looks… _confused_? And so, for that matter, do Kira and Dax. Doctor Bashir is nowhere to be seen.

“My office, please, Mr. Laset.”

It is not a request – Ekor once again notices how well Sisko controls the inflection of his voice.

He follows the Human into the former prefect’s office, feeling out of place. This, too, is intentional on Sisko’s part, and Ekor reluctantly takes the place appointed to him by the Captain.

Each time they meet, they spar -- sometimes Ekor has the upper hand, and sometimes, like today, Sisko forces him on the defensive.

As soon as the doors close behind them, Ekor starts to speak – but Sisko interrupts him: “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Laset,” he says with more caution than Ekor is expecting. “Who is dead? What code? What should I have listened to?”

“When Elim told you he wasn’t going to do it, you should have… what?”

Sisko was rubbing his head, frowning. “Mr Laset… I do not know what utterance of Mr Garak’s you’re referring to… as far as I remember, he didn’t refuse anything I ordered today… and as far as I know, I did not cause anyone’s death, either.”

“What?”

Oh. _Oh, of course_ … embarrassment starts hot in the pit of Ekor’s stomach as the truth of Sisko’s statements begins to dawn on him.

“I… but…” Ekor swallows the many emotions rising inside him, not least of all, his _pride_ . So this is what it feels like to fall for one of the lies, he thinks. He feels stupid, unrefined, and brutish, and he cannot believe this is happening – and then, dispassionately, the thought occurs: he should know better. He _knows_ Elim. He knows he is a liar.

He bows his head in apology, hotly, uneasily aware how much of a fool he has just confessed himself to be. “I apologise, Captain,” he says softly, humiliation burning in his throat. “I was obviously mistaken.”

Sisko fixes him with his gaze, before relaxing slightly, and sitting down behind his desk. He starts playing with the small, white leather ball he keeps there. Ekor feels like a miscreant student under the captain’s scrutiny.

Finally, Sisko speaks. “Mr Laset… I do not believe you would come storming up here without reason…”

“The reason is that I was… misinformed about what happened,” he grinds out. Oh, he has been played, and he knows Sisko will milk the moment for all it is worth.

“That seems to be the case, yes,” Sisko agrees, and there is a smug little twitch to his mouth, before he catches himself, sobering up. “But… from what I’ve seen of Mr Garak ever since you have become a part of his life…”

They both know the parts that aren’t being said: the part where Sisko deeply and enduringly disapproves of the concept of anyone owning another person; the part where his senior officers had to convince him to let them be; the part where Elim’s cooperation has been used as a bargaining chip to force him to do just that…

“What I’m trying to say is, I do not believe he would lie to you just like that.” Sisko demonstrates by snapping his finger in the air. Right now, however, the Human is the only one with that conviction. “I think something did happen today, something that upset him…”

Ekor swallows. There is no doubt in his mind that Elim was genuinely upset when he came home. “Perhaps… you’re right, Captain.”

“If I find out what we’re dealing with, I will let you know – unless I cannot.”

Ekor nods, once, in a polite Cardassian gesture that feels only a little bit forced. “Thank you, Sir. I am… hoping I will find out exactly that, myself.”

He turns to leave.

“Do not act out of anger,” Sisko says evenly.

Ekor stops. “I never do.”

Then, he is back on his way to their quarters.

When he returns, Ekor has regained a good hold on his anger and humiliation. For now, they will be put out of his mind – he has matters to attend to that will not brook any preoccupation, or emotional compromise.

Ekor quietly locks the door behind himself and mutes the chime, leaving their comm terminal on automatic reply. Satisfied with the status indicator blinking yellow, he enters the cabin proper.

Elim is still in the bathroom, crouched on the floor tiles against the towel cabinets. Ekor has to admit, if only to himself, that he is relieved that Elim has allowed the timer to release the door: with disobedience, disrespect, dishonesty and embarrassment already on the list of Elim’s misbehaviours, he would have hated to add spite into the mix.

Elim’s blue gaze meets him as he approaches the bathroom. It’s stormy and it flicks away for a second, before Elim redirects it to Ekor’s eyes.

Ekor stops at the doorway, taking him in. Elim is tense, observant, and maybe, but Ekor is not sure… _nervous_. He considers sitting down next to Elim, but refrains.

“Are you afraid of me right now?” He asks instead. While nervousness, even a certain _dread_ , is expected and welcome, fear is not.

Elim shakes his head once. “No, Sir,” he whispers, gripping his wrist tightly.

Ekor cannot shake the feeling that he would like to be, though – but he cannot help with that. Fear like that is out of the question. He does not acknowledge the answer, either, even though he is satisfied with it.

“This is going to cost you, Elim,” he says evenly. Elim flinches. It’s a statement of fact, not a threat. “Your behaviour was reprehensible, and you will be punished for that. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Elim lets go of his own wrist, settling it on his knee bruise-side-down and sighing.

“I know that,” he says, hoping not to sound impatient; he hopes he does not sound any particular way at all.

Going over the mistake in his head does not clarify anything for him, least of all how he should feel. But surely atoning for innocent lives is a task beyond Ekor’s capability. No matter how much Elim loves him and needs him, he is not _divine_.

“Did you go to see the Captain?” Elim asks.

“I did.” Ekor nods tersely, and Elim decides against lying any more, to reinforce the first.

“Lives were lost, Sir, and I don’t think there’s anything you can do about that,” Elim says. “I accept punishment, I _want_ punishment, but in all reality it’s a waste of our time.”

“You are _so far_ out of line,” Ekor warns, and Elim winces at the steel in his voice. “Get up.”

Elim blinks.

“Now, Elim. I’m not going to ask twice.”

That spurs him into action. Elim scrambles to his feet, and Ekor takes him by the wrist. His clothes are wrinkled, and it’s obvious he’s upset, but Ekor has had enough. Without further warning, he marches Elim out into the living room, ignoring the way his fist tightens against the rough treatment.

“Face the bulkhead. Hands over your head, and to the wall.”

This time, Elim obeys quickly.

Ekor unfastens Elim’s trousers and yanks them down to his knees. He deals with his undergarment the same way, leaving Elim naked from waist to knees, his tunic hanging awkwardly off his frame.

“Legs apart.”

Elim looks as though he is about to protest, but then, with a mutinous glare, does as he is told. Childish, Ekor thinks, disappointed. He finds it distasteful and tedious to pit his willpower against that of any pet of his, least of all his Bonded.

“You need to understand one thing, Elim,” he says. “You’re not in charge here.” Ekor lifts the tunic and crumples it up, so that it will stay up around his chest, leaving Elim’s backside exposed. “ _I am_. So you don’t get to decide what is ‘a waste of our time’ and what isn’t.” Ekor’s touch is rough as he handles Elim’s clothes, pushing the bunched-up trousers down a little more.

Elim bites his lip, waiting for the blows to start.

They don’t. He starts to turn his head in confusion, but Ekor snaps, “Eyes front,” and so he keeps his gaze straight ahead.

“We’ll talk about what happened in Ops, later. You’ll tell me, politely and in detail, what happened there, and we’ll work through it. But right now, I’m not interested in the truth, Elim. You had your chance to tell it, and you chose to pass. So, no. What is going to happen now has nothing to do with that truth, but everything with your _abysmal_ behaviour.”

Elim draws a breath through his nose at that, but does not speak.

“You are wilful, disobedient, _disrespectful_ …” Disappointment colours Ekor’s voice, “ _rude_ … and on top of all that, you _embarrassed_ me in front of Captain Sisko.

“That’s not behaviour I will tolerate from my _pet_ , and you will be punished for that, _regardless_ of whatever happened in Ops today.

“Now. You will stand perfectly still. You will keep your eyes to the wall, legs spread, hands and knees _touching_ the wall, and reflect on the way you behaved ever since you came home. You will do this until I say you can stop, and not a moment less. If you move, it will add to your punishment later. The same goes for if you speak.

“Is there anything you wish to say before we start?”

Elim sighs, and focuses intently on stopping his knees from trembling any more. He does realize how poorly he has behaved, and the humiliation he feels now is all to be expected, he thinks.

“I am sorry to have embarrassed you,” Elim admits. “I didn’t expect you to go to the Captain right away, Sir. I wasn’t thinking, I… I let my autonomy in Ops dictate my actions, my tasteless and inconsiderate behavior toward you… I hope I can give a full explanation.”

He lowers his gaze to indicate he has finished speaking, and recalls, in shame, that Ekor has crumpled his clothing and shoved it out of the way. He cannot guess what he is in for, but the prospect of quiet reflection does not appeal to him either; he will only replay the actions of the day over and over in his mind. And he fears he will shake and tremble and break Ekor’s rules again an again and again and—

“Thank you, Sir,” he adds, waiting for Ekor to approach him.

Elim stares at the floor between his own boots, and stifles a sob, not allowing it to move his body.

“I am… really quite angry with you.” Ekor keeps his voice calm and even. “Your actions today hurt me, and you put the lie to what we are to each other.”

This time, Elim doesn’t hold back the sob. His chest heaves, unchecked.

Ekor feels something in his throat soften at the sight of his pet, plain and honest now in his upset, clearly trying with increasing desperation to follow his instruction to the letter. And just as clearly losing the fight. Elim has no control over his shaking knees or his breathing, as remorse begins to set in.

“It’s alright, pet,” Ekor says softly, after a minute of raptly watching him struggle.

The urge to walk over there and touch Elim’s nape in reassurance becomes overwhelming; he resists it, even though the first licks of beauty are beginning to show, like invisible welts on Elim’s soul. Elim’s submissive behaviours have always been strong, and Ekor has never known himself not to be moved by perfection. “It’s alright, as long as you hold position.”

Ekor won’t punish for something Elim has no chance of controlling for any length of time – and in this, the thought and the will is really all that counts.

“I will listen to your explanation, _after_ , Elim’ik.” Elim’s fingertips twitch against the bulkhead, but he holds his position, pressing his knees to the wall, thighs flexing.

“For now, all I want you to think about is your behaviour, in silence. I will ask you about your thoughts before I will start your correction, so that we both know you have understood the lesson you’re about to learn.”

In all his years of training and testing, Elim can never recall focusing so hard. Every breath is a struggle, a compromise between his heaving chest and aching knees, a loud echo that would give away his position if he were in hiding.

But it is plain to him now that he is far from _in_ _hiding_ : he has been shamefully stripped and exposed to Ekor’s calculating gaze. He deserves whatever is coming.

The position isn’t very difficult to hold. There is a slight strain on the ankles and knees, and the arms tend to grow heavy after a while, but all in all, the physical aspect is easy.

The mental isn’t.

Reluctantly, Elim plays through the day’s events in his mind. He tries to imagine how Ekor must have looked on the other side of the door, exasperated at being disobeyed. Elim has never given him cause for this, for a serious punishment. But he threw aside their bond in favor of a lie, knowing full well it would not help the situation. There was nothing Ekor could do about that - what happened in Ops - but it was all well within Elim’s power to address it reasonably when he arrived home.

He sighs, counts his breaths mentally to himself, focuses on maintaining the stillness. He still cannot see Ekor, but he has a clearer idea now of his facial expression. Ekor must be so disappointed, to have gone gently on him. Elim frowns and bites back a sob, letting a tear roll down to catch on his orbital ridge. He feels pathetic, as he waits for Ekor to initiate the next phase.

While Ekor is waiting, he busies himself with other things: he orders a cup of arati-sweetened redleaf tea from the replicator, and begins to read an exposé on the Interstellar Journal for Early Musics, for all intents and purposes ignoring Elim completely.

Of course, that is just a ruse; in fact, Elim is never gone from Ekor’s mind. Nothing of his inner struggle escapes him, and Ekor knows how hard it is to be left alone with one’s recurring thoughts, each iteration crisper and more merciless than the previous one, until all there is left is regret and mortification.

The minutes stretch out into an ocean of mental repetition until time becomes meaningless, only measured by the strain on one’s body.

In the end, Ekor only makes Elim wait for a little more than fifteen minutes, but it feels much longer to Elim. When he walks up to him, Elim is shaking, and there are tear streaks on his face.

“Stand easy, little one,” Ekor says softly from behind his shoulder; Elim lets his hands fall to his side and straightens his legs, shifting a little on his feet.

“Clasp your wrists behind your back, and keep your eyes down… ” He will not allow eye contact; Elim wants touch now, of skin on skin, and of gaze on gaze, but that, he will not get for a while yet.

“Now, Elim’ik… tell me what you believe you have done wrong, why it was wrong, and what you should have done instead. And then tell me what you think is a fair consequence.”

Elim gratefully accepts the change in position, but wants desperately to look at Ekor.  He gives a humble nod as he processes the requests; all of them are reasonable.

“I behaved recklessly, Sir; as if I belonged only to myself.  I was… ashamed to be your property, because of the extent of my failure.  I… I had made a very serious mistake, but I should have informed you of it rationally and truthfully.”

He begins to lift his chin, studying the passing bolts in the wall, before resetting his gaze to the floor as Ekor has ordered.

“Without defying you further,” he says, voice shaky, “I do not… think I am fit to choose my consequence.  It should not be anything I enjoy.”

“Reckless, Elim?” Ekor asks back. “You can do better than that. Would you call it ‘reckless’ when you refused to open the door? When you took matters into your own hand and locked yourself in? When you told me ‘no’? What about when you _lied_ to me? Was that just ‘reckless’?”

Ekor’s voice is hard as he tears into Elim’s euphemism. Although he does not doubt his remorse, Ekor will have him humble himself. “I will need more than that from My pet.”

“I… I was disobedient,” Elim summarizes, mumbling softly. “I was not behaving as if I was yours at all, Sir.”

Oh, he knows the physical punishment is still to come, but he struggles to think of anything more painful than being honestly and forcefully questioned by his Master. Their agreement was meant to achieve mutual satisfaction, to help Elim feel less responsibility and risk. And he can hardly do that if he is going to take the initiative to lock himself into their room for punishment.

He is sure, whatever it is, Ekor’s punishment will be far more responsible and better suited; it is one of the many benefits Ekor’s ownership provides him. He should not worry…

“I’m sorry, Sir. I took your discretion as my own, I lied to you, I disobeyed you, I _denied_ you… I told you ‘no,’ and I deserve to be punished for all of this.”

“You did, and you do.” Ekor wants to reach out and tell Elim how well he thinks he’s doing with his confession, but he curbs the impulse, biting his lip. “And you will be.”

When he steps around and between Elim and the wall, Ekor gently takes hold of Elim’s chin and guides his gaze up until their eyes meet. “Was that difficult, Elim’ik?” he asks.

Tears well up in Elim’s eyes once again as he nods. When Ekor touches him, it is as if he cannot stop shaking. “Y-yes, Sir…”

“That’s good. It means you did what you were meant to do with your time.”

His words only seem to make Elim more disconsolate. He’s blinking wetly, turning his head away in shame. “I-I’m so sorry, Sir,” he chokes, fingers twisting behind his back.

“I know.” He does. Ekor knows he is sorry, he knows he has understood that what he has taken away from Ekor is nothing less than Elim himself, he knows Elim wants to pay. He knows Elim is ready now – beautiful, attuned to him, receptive. “Go into the bedroom and fetch a paddle, the heavier strap, and one of the canes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Elim nods and stumbles at first, in his half dressed state, before making an orderly exit to their bedroom. Inside, he is able to breathe calmly, and to collect the items Ekor requested.

He knows to find the paddle in Ekor’s coveted toy chest. This is an implement he has felt before, although in all honesty he prefers to receive spankings from Ekor’s bare hand. But this is for genuine punishment, he reminds himself, as he takes it out of the box.

Next is the strap, which hangs inconspicuously on a hook in the closet - Elim does enjoy a hard belting - and a cane from Ekor’s small collection. He has not been struck with a cane before, and as he tests the weight of this one in his hand, he can guess how painful it will be. He must deserve it, he thinks, not only for what he did to Ekor, but to the civilians this morning.

As he returns, head bowed low and implements held reverently in his arms, Elim has another thought. Another request, which he makes quietly, humbly… he bows and addresses Ekor with his arms outstretched.

“Ekor’el, Beloved…” he says, panting, “I am afraid of my reaction. I am afraid I will evert.”

He wants to be blocked physically from doing so; his reactions to pain are surely not appropriate with punishment of this magnitude.

Ekor is all too aware that Elim is sincere now, not just saying whatever comes to his mind to get out of being disciplined. “Give me your hands, Elim’ik.” He gently takes the implements from Elim’s hands and places them on the table next to the sofa.

He holds out his own, waiting until Elim has placed his on top, back to palm, before he curls his fingers around Elim’s, closing their hands together. Elim keeps his head bowed in deference, and Ekor wants to pull him in so that he would rest against his chest. He keeps the distance.

With a deep breath, he squeezes Elim’s fingers. “Don’t be afraid of it, my pet. If it happens – _when_ it happens, it happens. It’s just a physical reaction, nothing to fear, or be ashamed of. This is punishment and you _will know it_ , no matter what happens.”

Before he met Ekor, Elim had been trained to suppress and manage his reactions to physical stress. Ekor, however, has always wanted him to feel _everything_ , no matter what it is that it does to him. How can he explain to Elim that his pain response is mirrored perfectly by Ekor’s own reaction to inflicting it? How can he say… “There is nothing, Elim’ik… _nothing_ in your reactions that I do not understand perfectly, that I do not _accept_ , and cherish.”

He slowly lets go of Elim’s hands and pulls up a chair. “When you’re ready, bend over the back, face to the seat, hands around the edge,” he says evenly.

Elim nods, accepting the generous allowances Ekor has given him: a chair to support his weight, reassurance, and all the time he needs to prepare.

Ekor’s grip on his hands calms him, and after his breathing is steady and quiet, he dismisses himself to the chair.  Bending over it exactly as Ekor describes feels fitting for the punishment he has earned: he is exposed and helpless, but well-supported for the onslaught. And he cannot see Ekor’s face.

The room is quiet, but Elim feels no tension. When he focuses, he tries to narrow in on the sounds of the implements, the weight they occupy as they move through the air.  He wants to know what Ekor will start with, but then it occurs to him that _surely_ Ekor will tell him if he wants him to know.

Ekor weighs the paddle in his hand for a few seconds. Then, taking up the cane, he lets it whoosh through the air, stopping centimetres before it impacts with Elim’s skin, touching him just gently instead. Elim flinches as if he had taken the blow unstayed, and Ekor doesn’t bother to hide the eager little smile in his voice: “… perhaps not… _yet_.”

Putting the cane back with a soft click of wood on wood, he traces the fork between the two ends of the strap with his fingertip and nail. They’re so supple and heavy and oh, bound to raise _magnificent_ welts on Elim’s seat, but in the end, he decides against that, too, for the start.

“It’s the paddle, for now,” he tells Elim who nods once, holding his breath. “Ask me for it, pet.”

His flanks move softly with his breaths, calm, and Ekor slides his own breathing into synchronicity with Elim’s. For a moment, they breathe as one, Elim bent over the chair, backside sticking up and out, and Ekor standing behind him, taking it all in.

“… please, Sir,” Ekor hears Elim’s voice, slightly muffled by the seat of the chair. “I… I would like… will you use it on me?”

“Very well, Elim’ik. This is for disrespect.”

Forgoing the softer side of the paddle completely, Ekor brings it down on Elim’s rear hard. Elim jumps with a soft yelp each time it falls, but the chair fixes him in place— _whack!_ Again, the paddle comes down, no softer than before; there is no warm up at all, it’s just pain now, immediate, keen and deep, with each loud, resounding _crack_.

Ekor sets a fast, irregular pace, never letting Elim prepare for the next stroke, relishing the purple imprint each blow leaves behind.

Elim winces and groans every time the force of the paddle meets his skin. His face is planted firmly in the seat cushion, and he does his best to keep from sobbing audibly. When there is a pause, he gasps and his voice wavers, but he believes he knows instinctively what he must do.

“Will you use the belt on me, Sir?” Elim asks.

Ekor says “shh” and “wait, pet” and paces around to Elim’s side. He touches the heated skin carefully with his hand, and just as Elim leads into a relaxed sigh, Ekor pinches him hard.

Elim yelps and digs his head further into the cushion. His seam is obscured against the backrest of the chair, but he feels pressure there, and it makes him uncomfortable. His trousers are still wrinkled around his knees, and his shirt is shoved up at his chest.

“The b-belt…?” He whimpers. “ _Sir_?”

Satisfied with the flush of the markings, Ekor steps aside and raises the paddle once more. Elim listens carefully for the whistle it makes as it cuts through the air, so he can try to time its impact.

The paddle swats his rear, raining blows down again, and as he sucks in cold air through his teeth, he pushes himself against the backrest. The pain is intense, glowing and warm, and this is how he finds relief from the growing pressure inside of him.

“That’s alright, Elim’ik… it’s alright,” Ekor mutters as Elim flushes dark charcoal, whining softly.

He squirms and voices his concern in little whimpers, but Ekor reassured him of his reaction. It is only physical, he repeats to himself in Ekor’s voice, and even though Elim has been conditioned to find pleasure in pain; this is still his punishment.

He never once has to tell him not to rut against the chair, he never has to fight him or force his hands back to the edge of the seat as he administers another series of spanks with the paddle.

Ekor cannot help but fall in love with his enchanting pet all over. He shakes his head to clear his mind, but oh, Elim is riveting, the darkened skin, his sounds, his reined in writhing… Ekor feels an answering insistence inside, and he strikes harder in response.

“You want. The belt?” he asks, emphasising his words in time with the paddle.

Elim sobs, stiffening. There is a wet trail beginning to form between his thighs, but he keeps still, resisting the urge to flex his muscles. “P-please, _Sir_ …”

Ekor aches to touch, knowing how wonderful it would feel to swipe his fingers through the wetness and follow it to its warm, swollen source. _No_. Not now.

He limits himself to rubbing the heated, purpled skin, making Elim squirm forcefully in discomfort. “So you think you’ve had enough of this?”

– another hard smack that leaves a blossoming sting and radiating heat. Elim cries out, “Hnnnnngh…! I-I d-don’t… it’s your d-decision, Sir,” he gasps, and a whispered, “please”, and then he falls silent, understanding that Ekor will do as he sees fit, and there is nothing he can do to sway him.

“Well, you seem to have learned that part of the lesson well enough,” Ekor comments, bringing the paddle down. “You _do_ not _address_ me without _respect_ ,” he demands, “is that _understood_?”

smack – smack – smack! – _smack!_

“ _A-ahhh_ -ow!” Elim pants. “Y-y-yesssss, Sir… _please_ ! I-I’ll be good, I’ll be _so good_ …”

Ekor decides he is satisfied – ever since they have started, Elim has not once slipped from his deference. He puts the paddle down on the table and touches Elim’s back. There are little tremors running through his body, and his breathing is uneven, halting and exploding forth in turn, and Ekor wants to kiss him so badly.

Instead he takes up the leather strap, testing it against his own arm. The pain it delivers is shocking enough to sober him a little.

“Alright, then, little one.” He uses the name he knows Elim enjoys most. “Then _this_ is for disobedience, for embarrassing me, and for _lying_ when only a truth would do.”

He brings down the strap, and where the sound of the paddle seemed loud before, this is much more so.

The stripe it leaves behind is dark and begins to swell immediately. There will be bruises.

The belt _cracks_ against Elim’s buttocks, over and over, and it depletes all that remains of his field training to stay still. When it comes down the next time, he is exhausted, and he lurches forward. His face is buried in the cushion now, and his backside is raised high.

It stings him an eighth time, then a ninth - he counts them aloud, barely, in gasps - and then he cries out on the tenth and the eleventh. He is everting, and everything hurts.

When he wore his wire, there was no delay in the translation of intense pain to pleasure. Now, it takes a moment for the licks of the strap to feel hot and _exciting_.

He grips the sides of the seat and groans as his cock slips out, already hard and curving upward for attention. It _hurts,_ and then it delights him, to feel himself poking through a decorative gap in the barred backrest, smearing fluid. He ruts several times, desperate, before another hit of the belt reminds him this is punishment; rutting is a reaction he _can_ control.

Ekor is much too good at this to pause. Elim marvels internally at his Master’s Control, the level head he keeps while he administers the blows, not stopping to distract himself with Elim’s eversion. Not yet.

“I want to be good, Sir,” Elim reaffirms. “I don’t… want to lie to you…”

He looks down at his stiff cock, and wonders what kind of truth it counts toward. The belt falls lower, now, against his wettened thighs.  

“Then don’t.” The leather falls again.

“T-tw- _enty-six_ !” Elim gasps, barely audible. “I _promise_ …”

– _crack_!

“Owww, … twen… ty-seven…”

– _crack_!

“T-twenty-eight… ple… please wait, _ohhh_ …”

Ekor doesn’t wait. He is mesmerised by the little hitches in Elim’s breath, the way his cheeks clench involuntarily before he forces himself to relax.

“Thirty-nine, Sir—, f-f-forty…” Elim sobs, even as he struggles not to let his legs fall open, “please, _please_ , Sir, I promise…!”

Ekor pauses. “What do you promise, Elim’ik?” he asks, raptly watching Elim’s legs buckle with the strain of processing the lashes. His voice hums with power.

“I’ll s-stop…”

Three more times, the strap whistles through the air, landing in quick succession on Elim’s already tender bottom.

Elim wails and howls and thrashes, crying a broken “forty-three”, before subsiding, mumbling pleas for clemency into the seat cushion. His cock is twitching against the backrest of the chair, hopelessly aroused, smearing its fluids everywhere.

It is filthy and beautiful and Ekor almost moans.

“That was for making a promise you know you have no chance of keeping,” Ekor informs Elim, not unkindly. “You won’t break the habit of a lifetime, just because of a few strokes with the strap. Try again.”

Elim’s breaths come harshly, interspersed with sobs and whimpers as he tries to work through the intense, spreading pain, and fails.

“ _Hurtssss_ ,” he hisses wetly, and Ekor hears his tears even though he cannot see them, “hurts so _much_ …” Elim is fidgeting, making tiny steps on the spot, just as to do _something_ other than rut, and Ekor just aches to touch, he aches to ravish, he aches to evert, he simply aches all over.

Keeping his hand steady, he places it in the small of Elim’s back, just above the base of his spine. Elim cries out at the gentle touch, whispering his name-title, “Ekor’el…”

“What do you promise, Elim’ik?” Ekor repeats, stroking his heated, abused skin gently, and Elim understands that there are wrong answers to the question, and that he will answer it, over and over, until he gets it right. He keens in dismay.

Elim squeezes hard on the sides of the chair, steadying himself; the trembling somehow seems worse when the belt is not lashing him. It is the moments between where he loses his composure.

“I… promise…” he pants, “not to… disappoint you like that again, Ekor’el…”

He knows he might lie again, regardless of how much he loves his master. Ekor does not want him to overextend his honesty; he would be set up for failure and a cycle of insecurity. The thought occurs to him as Ekor touches him again softly, tracing nail-claws lightly over his unharmed spinal ridge.

“I promise to improve. I promise to let you improve me, I promise not to resist… oh, _Sir_!”

Ekor kneads the raised flesh gently, and Elim whimpers, ashamed of his eversion _and_ the fact Ekor has not acknowledged it.

“I promise I will try harder, Ekor’el. How many more do I deserve?”

He bites his lip and raises his backside, bracing his legs against the chair.

Ekor weighs Elim’s promise in his heart, letting his hands slide around the curve of Elim’s raised rear. It’s warm there, and damp, and Ekor pries his hand away before he can slip his fingers in between.

“I will hold you to that promise, little one,” he mutters, returning to Elim’s spine, tracing it up all the way to the base of his skull.

Elim shivers.

“You’re almost done,” Ekor whispers to his ear, bending down to speak. He can see Elim’s cock jump, dark, stiff and drooling threads of seed insistently.

“I’ll give you a choice, little one.” The heavy leather is going to sting, and it will deepen the bruises that are already forming, but there are still other options. “You will either receive nine more lashes with the strap…”

Elim gasps softly, a sound between a moan and a whimper escaping. He sounds so naked now, so raw, and Ekor bites his lip and presses the heel of his hand into his groin to prevent himself from everting right then and there. His breath sounds ragged, and the ecstasy of merely giving this choice, this terribly hard choice, is hot, an unheard rush of white noise against his ears.

“… or, you may choose to receive between two and five strokes with the cane.” Ekor closes his eyes, breathing once through his nose to regain himself. “You will have to ask for each one, counting them out one by one, in advance. You will ask for at least two – the others you may elect if you believe you deserve more than that.”

Elim considers the offer, and tries to match his punishment to the grave mistakes he has made today.  Not only at home, to Ekor, but in Ops, to innocent civilians. He needs the harshest punishment Ekor can administer, and he needs to be made to ask for each repetition.

“May I have the first strike from the cane, Sir?” Elim asks, entire body trembling in the wake of the paddle and strap.  “I need closure for… for what I have done–”

His voice cuts off into a sob, and Ekor squeezes at his nape, massaging it gently, reassuring him.

“In Ops, Sir, I– I made a mistake and caused–”

“Shh, not now, pet.”

Elim does not risk turning around to watch.  His hearing is not as acute as Ekor’s, so he must focus to hear the cane clacking against Ekor’s nails as he raises it and tests its weight.

“I deserve all five,” Elim sobs, even before the first is given. “Maybe more.”

Ekor shushes him again, and gently instructs him to brace himself before the cane comes down.  

He strikes Elim square across the buttocks, and the cane immediately leaves a thin, angry welt behind, stark even against the already purpled skin.

Elim howls out in pain, without words or articulation, and the rawness of the sound touches Ekor deeply.

Even as he’s still processing, as the impact is still developing its full power, Elim instinctively attempts to cover his backside with his hands, whining without any control at all. “Owww, mercies… _h-hurtsss_ ,” he hiccups, as Ekor gently replaces Elim’s hands, “hurts, … I… _S-sir_ …“. Elim swallows what he was going to say and lets Ekor guide his hands back to the edge of the seat.

“Grip the chair, little one. Can you keep your hands there for me?” Ekor’s voice is soft as he strokes Elim’s trembling arms.

Elim doesn’t react at first, only whimpering quietly. The agony of the first strike with a cane is always shocking, and Ekor knows it is beginning to dawn on him that he will have to ask for another, at least one more.

“Elim’ik… I can restrain your hands if you cannot keep them on the seat,” he explains, still gently massaging the fleshy underside of Elim’s upper arms. “But you _need_ to keep them away now, sweet one… do you understand?”

With another sob, Elim nods, turning his head so that he can look at Ekor, who returns his tearful gaze with a reassuring, tender one of his own. Elim nods again – so brave, Ekor thinks. “I’ll, I’ll k-keep them… off,” Elim answers finally, gripping the seat’s edge hard.

Elim’s throat is working. Ekor lets go of his arms, carefully. Elim’s fingers stay put.

“Sir…” he trails off.

“… you need to ask me for it, little one,” Ekor says quietly, ruthlessly forcing down his need to touch, to be gentle – that will only make it harder now.

“May I… may I have the second strike, Sir?” Softly, swimming in tears.

Ekor nods. “you may,” he whispers, and then brings the cane down again, a few centimetres lower than the first, but just as harshly.

This time, the words are gone from Elim’s scream. He convulses, fisting the cushion for purchase.

Ekor takes a shuddering breath, and waits… it is up to Elim, his beautiful, strong pet. _Elim’ik_.

Scrambling to steady himself, Elim swallows and tries to speak. His voice is quiet but clear, as he focuses on this important task.

“Will you give me a third, Sir?” He asks. “I promise to hold the chair.”

“Very well, little one.”

Ekor strikes again with the cane, marking Elim’s thighs. Each hit, so far, has drifted lower, and Elim’s buttocks are stinging in the aftermath.

Still, he can not rectify what he allowed to happen in Ops today. He swallows hard.

“I need a fourth, Sir. Please give me a fourth.”

Ekor touches his skin inquisitively, kneading his thigh before drawing away. Elim marvels at the self control it must take Ekor, in not diving up into his drooling, open slit. As it is now, his cock is spasming over the backrest, dribbling his seed over both sides of the chair frame. He aches in pain; he does not feel the arousal in his mind. This is a conditioned response, one he is determined to fight.

“Hold steady, Elim’ik,” Ekor says.

Elim does so, crying out as he is hit again on the thighs. Afterward, he gasps and his arms tremble, but he keeps them locked against the sides of the chair. He sobs openly, now, processing intense pain.

A small part of his mind is afraid he will come, if he receives any more stimulation, be it pain or praise. He trembles and asks for a fifth, but Ekor gently dissuades him.

“You don’t need to do it, little one. You will have your closure,” he says.

“What I did was unforgivable,” Elim insists.

“No.” Ekor says this with conviction. “No it wasn’t, Elim’ik. I’m _sure_ of it, and I need you to just _accept_ that, for now.”

“How can you be so certain, Sir? You don’t even know what…” Elim sobs harshly, and whether the pain is physical or emotional or both, Ekor feels for him so much, he wants to soothe and comfort and _forgive_. But he can’t until Elim’s correction is complete, and so he grips the slender piece of wood more firmly, and holds on.

“It doesn’t matter how I know, little one,” Ekor replies. “What matters is what I’m saying, and that _your_ place is to accept my word, and my responsibility.”

That is what it comes down to, ultimately. Elim needs to let go and trust Ekor that he will hold him accountable.

“I can give you that fifth strike, Elim’ik,” he says at length, “but it won’t be for what you did in Ops. If I give it to you, it’s for removing yourself from me. For shutting me out, and for hurting me in the worst way I can imagine you hurting me.”

Elim swallows thickly, tears welling up anew. His buttocks and thighs are marked with four almost evenly spaced welts that will burn and smart for hours, even days.

“Do you want it, Elim’ik?” Ekor asks softly. He knows the answer, but he must hear it.

Elim nods. “Sir… please. Yes, I… I _need_ it… but…”

“But what, little one?”

“I might… my body might betray me.”

Oh, Ekor is all too aware of that. He has been aware of it ever since Elim everted, even _before_ that… he has fought his own need to touch and make him _come_ , and he is aching so much by now, it would consume him if he slips even the tiniest bit. He swallows several times to clear his throat – and mind – and then simply answers, “it’s not shameful if it does, Elim’ik.”

He steps up to Elim, pushing his head down towards the seat cushion by the nape of his neck. “Hands firmly around the edge, sweet one,” he admonishes and waits until Elim has adjusted his stance. Ekor pushes his hip up a little more, so that his rear is raised a little higher.

Then, Ekor lays the cane across the other welts gently, taking aim. He waits.

“Please,” Elim implores.

The cane hisses in the air and connects a split second later with an angry thwack, and Elim’s legs buckle as he screams in pain. It’s too much, too much, it feels like liquid fire is laid across his skin, and molten pain sears deep into his soul.

Boneless, he collapses over the chair. Ekor puts away the cane, leaving it on the table, unheeded.

He rushes to Elim’s side and helps him stand, slowly, letting him lean his trembling weight heavily on his shoulders. Elim’s arms come around him immediately, squeezing for dear life, pulling him as close as he can.

He lets Elim hide his head in the curve of his neck as he shivers, and cries and cries.

Ekor’s eyes well up. “Oh, my love… my strong, brave little one… you’re forgiven.”

Ekor’s affirmations feel warm in Elim’s heart, but they do not help slow his sobs. Most of his weight is supported in Ekor’s arms, by now, and he remains still. He feels heavy, as if each bruise is a new physical weight.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Then, after a pause in which Ekor strokes his hair, he asks a timid question.

“May I… lie down with you, Sir? I… can’t be without you… but I’m so… tired…”

Ekor graciously kisses his cheek and kneads gently at his spinal ridge.

“I wouldn’t force you away from me now, little one. Let me take you to our bedroom…”

Elim appreciates the narration, even though the tasks are simple and routine. It grounds him, and allows him to keep his eyes shut as Ekor half-carries him down the hall to the bed.

Ekor sits his pet down on the edge, supporting his shoulders and pulling his trousers off the rest of the way. Elim’s cock is still hard and leaking, but the strikes did not make him come; he feels proud of himself for separating the physical conditioning from his mental control.

“Did I do well… Keeper..?” he ventures to ask, nodding at his penis, feeling absurd.

Ekor kisses the base of it and then stands, helping to remove Elim’s coat and tunic.

“I wanted to… please you…”

Carefully, so as not to upset the marks on his thighs, Ekor opens Elim’s legs to inspect his sex… he draws in a breath, drinking in his scent with open mouth and closed eyes. If Elim only knew how incredible, how sweet he tastes in the roof of Ekor’s mouth, how heavenly…

“I am very… _very_ pleased with you, little one,” Ekor reassures, putting Elim’s clothes on a pile at the foot of the bed. “You did remarkably well.”

Elim looks at Ekor quietly, tears in his eyes. “ _Thank_ you, Sir,” he whispers, reaching for him with both arms outstretched.

Ekor climbs up on the bed. “Come lie atop me, Elim’ik.”

He does not need to say it twice; Elim gingerly turns and crawls up to Ekor, lying down on his stomach. Ekor sneaks a hand between Elim’s legs and slips his finger into his slit. He doesn’t tease or arouse; he simply feels the hot wetness there, as he has wanted to almost the whole time but couldn’t. With his other hand, he caresses Elim’s nape, burrowing his fingers into his hair, gently, very gently.

If he moves the hand down, he will be able to feel the raised welts and heated bruises he has given his pet. He will be able to feel his beauty, his splendour.

Instead, he grabs a light sheet and drapes it over them both. “You may doze, little one. If you wish.”

He can imagine so well how tired Elim must be.

“I would love to, Sir,” Elim says, “but there is… still more on my mind.”

He shivers when the sheet comes in contact with his markings, wincing until Ekor’s hand arrives there to soothe him.

Then, when he is calm again, he shifts his weight downward, trying to make himself comfortable until his arousal passes and he is able to revert. His belly scales rub pleasingly along the soft fabric of Ekor’s tunic, and Elim sighs to himself. He is beginning to relax.

“The fact is, Sir, before I embarrassed you and misbehaved, I _had_ made quite a serious mistake…” Elim begins.

Ekor continues massaging his nape; it is one of their favorite shared gestures of ownership.

“It is a contradiction fit for the rest of my life, Sir,” Elim explains, “and I cannot simply put it out of mind and go to sleep… I have never felt so guilty, before I joined to you. You have… opened me, Sir, to accountability, disabused me from acting blindly in State matters… “

Ekor’s hand is his anchor, and he relaxes into the touch.

“A mistake I made will inevitably lead to Cardassian deaths, Sir. And I don’t know from which side. And now I’m _aroused_?!”

He hopes Ekor will understand how upset he was earlier, when he shut him out. Now that this act has been forgiven, he is careful to acknowledge it and accept it.

“Little pet…” Ekor sighs, pulling Elim close. “You’re aroused because of who you are, not because (or despite) of what you did. These aren’t connected issues, Elim'ik. To force yourself not to become aroused… would be to force you to become something _other_.” Something less, he thinks but doesn’t say aloud.

Ekor cranes his neck to look in Elim’s eyes. The pain in them breaks his heart.

“You are what you are, and it is _mine_ and overwhelmingly loved.”

Ekor still remembers all too well a time when he himself was ashamed of his arousal. It was unbearably out of place to him, as mortifying, as _perverse_ as it is to Elim now. And Ekor knows intimately how wrong he used to be, feeling that way about himself. How much torment he inflicted on himself that way.

“I would not force you to become any other, any _less_ than yourself,” he says. “I myself have tried to be… acceptable, and it caused nothing but pain.”

Elim is kissing his neck with careful lips. It feels so nice that he sighs.

“We live, Elim,” Ekor says softly, after a while, “and we act, and sometimes we make mistakes that are less easily atoned for than by offering a pound of flesh to one’s owner. And I know you already know this, I’m sure you do.”

It is just feeling it that is unfamiliar to Elim, Ekor knows. He is drowning in a dizzying mix of emotions; Elim has not felt guilt for deaths he has caused before… and although Ekor wishes the mistake had not been made, wishes he could just do or say something that would make it better, he is also wracked with guilt for giving him this terrible gift. And at the same time, he is very proud of his little one.

“That’s right, Sir…” Elim eventually acquiesces. “I must have made mistakes like this in the past… I made some that saved lives too, Sir. And then I was sent here to atone.”

His voice wavers as he continues kissing Ekor’s neck, between every few words. He feels safe as long as he is curled up atop his keeper, but beyond that, he does not feel anything definite.

“And then my crippling loneliness… led to my becoming involved with you, Ekor’el…” Elim realizes. “I should know better than to see anything as clear and independent - it is all intertwined.”

Elim settles his head in the crook of Ekor’s shoulder, nuzzling in until Ekor begins to pet his hair.

“But I’m very tired now, Sir, and I am not thinking clearly. That has been the problem all day.”

Ekor smiles at Elim’s admission – that he wasn’t thinking clearly, exactly, has been obvious ever since he returned after his shift in Ops. “I know, little one,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around Elim’s shoulders.

“I’m not going to send you away…” Ekor does not believe Elim’s exile was owed to saving lives – or at least not the way Elim has just made it appear. That little tidbit about mistakenly saving lives is just a diversion for the unwary, unimportant, and Ekor dismisses it with the routine of listening to Elim and parsing his words on a regular basis. What he hears with painful clarity is that Elim believes he is now somehow worthy of the same punishment; otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought it up at all.

Elim wonders for a moment, as he burrows into Ekor’s arms, if he could be held so tightly that he could feel both punished and safe at the same time. He does not know how to request this.

“I’m not going to send you away,” Ekor repeats, tightening his grip into a brief, gentle squeeze. “It was an honest mistake, my pet. I know that won’t make a difference to those people it jeopardises… but…” He gathers his thoughts for a moment, stroking the dark head that is nestled into his shoulder.

“When Dr Bashir makes a mistake, lives are also often at stake, and might be lost. Would you condemn him to exile for them?”

Elim shakes his head, no, before drawing himself in even closer.

“Neither would I. I _know_ , little one, that your mistakes have always been deemed too vital for forgiveness, but you need to learn that forgiveness is a _possibility_ . Even for someone with your past, it is possible to make an honest mistake. A _forgivable_ mistake. Not even you are excluded from forgiveness by nature, little one, and it is a very dangerous thing to believe otherwise.”

Again, Elim shakes his head. It is hard for him to hear what Ekor has said, and much harder still to accept. He keeps denying himself, Ekor realises, and still, he clings to him as if afraid he will be sent away after all.

“Elim’ik. _You will stop that_.”

At the tone, Elim minutely relaxes.

“You will not take your punishment into your own hands, little one, or you will be defying me again.” As a reminder, Ekor finds the last welt the cane has left, and follows its shape with gentle pressure from his fingertip. “Is that what you want?”

Elim squirms and his breath catches as Ekor tests his markings. Of course his Keeper’s fingers are careful, but the heat and sensitivity of the welts is still intense.

“If you cannot accept it in any other capacity, then accept it because I say so, for now.” Ekor trails a finger up Elim’s nape, resting it in the base of his skull. Elim shudders; he does not attempt to move away.

“Yes, Sir... I don’t want to defy you. I want to believe you…”

He worries he cannot suggest his wish for confinement inoffensively enough, so he remains quiet and tries to relax into Ekor’s grasp.

He begins burrowing closer to Ekor’s chest, until there is no space left to fill. Then he kisses all he can reach, starting at Ekor’s bicep and working in toward his throat.

“Elim’ik…?”

He wiggles and grinds his slit into place against Ekor’s firm chuva and abdominal muscles. But then he promptly apologizes.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I know you won’t send me away.”

“… but you think you deserve it.”

Ekor frames Elim’s face between both his hands, peering into his eyes cautiously. They look back at him openly. Too innocently. “What’s wrong, Elim’ik?”

Elim shakes his head and pushes his chufa into Ekor’s chest with some force, mumbling unintelligible words into his tunic.

“Little one. The truth. Now.”

Elim clears his throat and meets Ekor’s gaze again, adding intensity to the order he was given.

“I want the opposite of that, Sir. If it will not mean denying your authority, I would like… I would like to request I be held down _very_ tightly… please, Sir? Is that acceptable?”

Embarrassed by his rambling admission, he burrows again.

“That’s the truth, Sir. I want to know I am not being cast out and I… want to… feel closure and shame…”

Ekor considers Elim’s request very carefully. “I know it’s the truth, little one,” he reassures him, even as Elim tries to burrow much closer still. There is nowhere left for him to go.

Ekor is a solid body underneath him, but still Elim feels unsafe, feels like he is about to be cast out, even like he deserves to be.

“It’s acceptable, Elim’ik,” he finally says, and Elim sags in relief. It will be both reassurance and symbolic punishment in one – and it may help Elim accept forgiveness. Ekor just has to be very careful with his pet while he is under his control that way. He has never tried to push that most personal limit with Elim before.

Ekor coaxes Elim to look at him. “By ‘held down’, do you mean staying atop me and being held very tightly, or do you actually mean ‘held down’ by me?” he asks earnestly.

Elim blinks a couple of times, opening and closing his mouth. “… Either way, Sir… either would be welcome.”

“… but you would prefer to be actually held down, wouldn’t you, pet?”

Elim nods, but Ekor cannot accept that.

“I need to hear it, little one. If you can’t even tell me, then it won’t happen at all.”

“I… you’re right, Sir… I would… prefer.” Ekor patiently strokes his pet’s chin. “I’d prefer if you could pin me,” Elim finally admits, flushing deeply with embarrassment and some fear… but it is fear merely of the act, not of Ekor.

“And if you should struggle, would you want me to persist?”

Elim tries to bury his head in Ekor’s armpit, but knows his Owner won’t let him get away with that, either. His ears feel hot with shame when he whispers, “Yes.”

Ekor gently pries Elim off himself. “On your stomach, Elim’ik,” he commands and is obeyed immediately. Roughly, he pulls Elim’s arms back and crosses his wrists in the small of his back before straddling his thighs. Elim winces as Ekor’s inseam scrapes over his welts, but does not complain.

Ekor holds Elim’s wrists with one hand and pushes his head down with the other by the nape. Then, gradually, he puts his weight onto Elim’s back, pressing him into the mattress. “That’s where you belong, little one,” he growls in his ear, “on your face, in shame.”

Elim gasps softly, but otherwise does not protest either the treatment or the language. “There won’t be any easy escapes for you this time, pet. You’ll stay right. _Here_ …” Ekor bends low, pressing in on Elim’s shoulders. “Right here with me… did you think I would go easy on you? Whyever would I want to spare you?” He mocks, eyes and ears closely on Elim. “Whyever would I give you the reprieve of sending you away? What you did was embarrassingly nearsighted and you ought to be _ashamed_ of yourself.”

Elim is grateful he has Ekor’s speech to focus on; it seems to be just what he needs to abate the overwhelming pressure of his confinement.

“I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed,” he repeats, voice muffled by cushions.

Ekor remains careful with him, testing the limit slowly. He squeezes Elim’s shoulder until Elim squirms, but does not try to free himself.

Elim works hard to control his breathing.

“I can’t be cast away,” he says, “I need to face this… I’m safe… I must process it…”

Supplanting memories is a tricky business, and one he and Ekor both have varying experience and success with. He hopes, if Ekor stays firm, he will end the session still feeling loved, without the guilt of his mistake. He is going to experience that now and then move past it.

“I want to - nnnhh -“ he grunts into the mattress, beginning to feel overwhelmed, “I want to do this…”

Elim thrashes his legs underneath Ekor, and Ekor hooks his feet around Elim’s ankles, pinning them to the mattress. “Not so fast, my pet,” he purrs softly, feeling Elim’s tense muscles move against him. “I won’t let you escape. Not now, not ever.”

Ekor leans in close to his ear. “Little one…” he whispers, “I’m not letting you go, my love. Hush, hush… focus on my voice.”

Ekor knows Elim needs his presence, more than anything. They’re subverting something powerful together, and Ekor needs Elim to hold on now, to a reality where he isn’t going to be sent away, where the arms pinning him down won’t hurt him.

“You’re _safe_ , little one.”

Where he has nothing to fear from being constrained.

When Ekor leans down, he can hear Elim’s frantic heartbeat. Elim is balanced so delicately between redemption and condemnation as Ekor loosens his grip around his wrists, using his body to keep them in place instead. He brings up his hand and leans in on his back, fully now.

“It’s alright, little one… nothing is going to happen to you. You _chose_ this, remember?” Ekor kisses Elim’s nape, over and over. “Can you feel it? That I won’t cast you out for what you have done?” Ekor gives Elim a little shove into the mattress, and Elim huffs out a wordless breath. “I want you _here_ , sweet one. Focus now… I know… oh, I know it’s hard, but I need you to focus on my voice. Let it anchor you…”

“I chose this…” Elim repeats to himself, but his voice is muffled.

Instead, he tries to focus only on Ekor’s.

The pressure on his neck and back is intense - he can feel Ekor’s full weight now - but Ekor’s words offer him the gentle guidance he needs. He closes his eyes so he is not directly faced with the cushion. He slows his breathing, and feels his heartbeat as it eventually follows.

“I know I made a mistake, Sir… I know I… _please_ —“ he gasps and must stop.

Ekor rests his weight on his arms, raising himself off of Elim’s back and speaking calmly in his ear.

“Little one…” Ekor says, “let me hear you clearly. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

“I know I made a mistake, Sir,” Elim whimpers, “and I know it is… the only option… I know I am safe when I leave my punishment in your hands, and not my own. Thank you.”

He sobs into the pillow, overwhelmed. He feels the pain of his welts, Ekor’s weight ghosting over him, shame and confusion.

But he knows he is safe.

Ekor lets Elim’s tears come and does not comment. The time for humiliation is over. Still pinning Elim down, he strokes his hair and whispers promises of safety and _home_ in his ear as Elim sobs, completely overwhelmed.

It takes a long time for Elim to stop. He is utterly exhausted when he finally does.

“Have you had enough?” Ekor asks in a kind tone of voice.

Elim mutely nods his head, as well as he can with Ekor‘s merciless grip on his nape.

“So will you let me forgive you for your mistake?”

This time, there is a pause before Elim nods again, wincing when Ekor scoots up a bit and his suit rubs over the tender welts on his buttocks and thighs. Still, he remains pinned and pushed down into the mattress.

“Then here’s how you atone, little one: you will help Captain Sisko mitigate your mistake as well as he can – maybe it won’t be much, maybe it will be nothing at all, but you don’t know that. You will return to Ops tomorrow, explaining to him what has happened, and ask him if there is anything he can do. Even if he cannot do anything, you will have tried.

“You will also take very good care to remain focused when you work in Ops, from now on. If you find your mind wandering, get up from your seat and work standing up for a while. If you still cannot focus, ask for permission to take six minutes off duty.

“Take care not to repeat this, little one.

“You will be taking regular, healthy meals, and you will report to me about them, as well as your intake of liquids. Under no circumstances are you to indulge in alcohol or recreational drugs before working.

“If I find you have been working while under the influence, you will be punished. If I find you neglecting your physical state, you will be punished. If I find you have been pushing yourself past endurance, you will. Be. Punished.

“Is that understood, little pet?”

Elim nods again, this time without delay, fervently.

“Good. Then, should I release you?”

“… please, Sir…” – It is muffled by the mattress, and Ekor only understands it because he already knows what Elim is going to say, but it’s enough for him.

He climbs off Elim and sits on the bed cross-legged, letting his little one curl up in his lap. Elim stares forward vacantly, as he processes his confinement.

“Thank you for giving me your voice to focus on, Sir,” he says, after a long while. “And for your rules. I _promise_.”

Elim has learned not to promise too much, but Ekor’s rules were all placed in his best interest, and he will work harder than ever to obey them. He hopes this is evident in his composure, now, because he is too tired to speak much more.

Ekor strokes his arm firmly, patiently.

“I know you will, my love,” he says. “And if you are faltering, I want you to look at your cuff, and touch it, and remember who owns you. Who _loves_ you.”

Elim sniffles again, and shifts so he can look up at Ekor’s beloved face. His welts sting when he turns them onto the mattress, and he winces.

“I love you too, Sir,” he says quietly, reaching up with his arms.

Ekor takes the embrace from Elim and cradles him against his chest. It is not late yet, but Elim is heavy in Ekor’s arms, and growing heavier with every breath he exhales against Ekor’s lips.

It isn’t long until Elim starts to fade out of consciousness where he is sitting, eyes drooping and rolling up under heavy lids, only to start when his head starts to drop between them.

Ekor smiles. “You may sleep, my Elim,” he reassures him, as he lays them both down on the bedding.

He wants to keep watch over Elim’s sleep until he is ready to wake once more – but then the softness of the blankets and Elim’s peaceful breathing lull him to sleep as well.

Perhaps, they will wake up later, and make love.

But whatever they do, they have found

Closure


End file.
